W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

clapped eyes on the John Doe, cold and gray and still as stone on a gurney in the coroner’s office, I’d had no reason in the world to believe the man was in any way related to me. Now, for all practical purposes, he belonged to me, and I was charged with the responsibility of overseeing the distribution of his assets, which apparently consisted entirely of cash, left entirely to me. Why did this seem so wrong? There was no mention in the will itself as to what he’d wanted done with his remains. I’d make arrangements for his funeral, but his children might want a part in that decision. Despite their rejection of him and his subsequent repudiation of them, he was still their father, and the issue was by no means settled. Whether his death did or did not change the emotional climate in their hearts, it was still my job to carry the news to them and to offer an olive branch. Surely, his kids must have felt relieved when they learned of his innocence. Whatever the nature of their estrangement, at least the specter of their father as a sexual predator and cold-blooded killer had been laid to rest.
    The other question that bore consideration was this: if R. T. Dace and I were related, which appeared to be the case, then what was the connection? While it was only speculation on my part, the answer seemed obvious. Dace had come to Santa Teresa because he’d heard that his favorite “Uncle R” had moved here with his family. He’d heard the news of his uncle’s death, but he’d still thought he might contact surviving family members. The slip of paper in his pocket didn’t refer to the personhood of Millhone, the private investigator. It was Millhone, the private citizen. The only conclusion that made sense was that Dace’s favorite “Uncle R” was my father, Randy Millhone. Terrence Randall Millhone and Randall Terrence Dace were related by blood, though I had no way of knowing if their relationship was actually that of uncle to nephew or something more convoluted. If I was correct in tracing a line to my grandmother Rebecca Dace, then Terrence was most likely my cousin somewhere along that branch.
    This is what stopped me in my tracks. If I was right, then the four black-and-white photographs of Dace’s “Uncle R” were the only pictures of my father I’d ever seen. I shut the door on that painful notion, which I’d deal with once I had the snapshots in hand. Right now, they were tucked away in Dace’s safe deposit box along with the other documents I could lay claim to once I sorted through legal matters.
    I pulled out the telephone book and looked in the yellow pages under “Attorneys.” In the subcategory “Wills, Trusts and Estate Planning,” there were twenty-one lawyers listed and I’d never heard of one. It wasn’t quite noon, so I picked up the phone and called Lonnie Kingman, my attorney of record. He’s my go-to guy at the first sign of legal troubles, which have cropped up more than once in the course of my career. For a period of three years, we’d shared office space, in that he’d accorded me the use of his conference room for business purposes after I left California Fidelity Insurance.
    Eventually, his firm had outgrown the space he was in and he’d bought an office building on lower State Street into which he’d moved some two years before. I realized with embarrassment that I’d never even stepped foot in the place. Maybe I should have considered that good news because it meant I hadn’t been arrested, jailed, or legally threatened of late. Instead, I was forced, once again, to acknowledge the gaps in my upbringing. Aunt Gin hadn’t fostered feelings of connectedness and I hadn’t had occasion to develop them on my own. Maybe it was time to at least pretend to be a nicer person than I knew I was. I dialed Lonnie’s office number.
    When the receptionist picked up, I identified myself and asked to speak to Lonnie. I didn’t recognize the receptionist’s name. She told me he was out of the country and wasn’t expected back until the following week.
    “What about John Ives? Is he in?”
    “No, ma’am, he’s not. Mr. Ives has left the firm and opened offices of his own. I can give you his number if you’d like.”
    “Martin Cheltenham?”
    “He moved to Los Angeles . . .”
    “Who’s left?”
    “I can put you through to Mr. Zimmerman.”
    “What’s his specialty?”
    “Personal injury.”
    “Do you have anyone who handles estate law? Wills, dead people?